


Of Tales Long Past

by DeathMeetsLife



Category: Thor (Movies)
Genre: F/M, Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, Kid Fic, Mischief and Mistletoe 2013, Post-Canon, Pre-Canon, Yule
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-02
Updated: 2013-12-02
Packaged: 2018-01-03 06:03:36
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,257
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1066916
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DeathMeetsLife/pseuds/DeathMeetsLife
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i> “Shall I tell you a story of your uncle and myself?” The boy nodded, eager as ever to hear stories of his father’s and uncle’s exploits. “Now, let’s see… since it is Yule, I shall tell a story of another festival that ended quite memorably." </i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	Of Tales Long Past

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Sundance201](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sundance201/gifts).



> First Mischief and Mistletoe participation, and I hope it lives up to what you were expecting! I definitely took a headcanon of mine and flew with it here, as it seemed to match up with your request. Happy Holidays!

“Father, we were supposed to go to the Yule Festival! You promised!” Loki continued stoking the fire, not turning to see the welling tears he knew to be in his toddler’s eyes. The tugging on his shirt turned to soft baby slaps, more meant for drawing attention than causing hurt, and the man could hear the soft snuffling of his son. “You promised we would go this year, Father, you promised.” Unable to take the ache that had begun to form in his chest, he turned and drew the boy into his arms.

“I am sorry, Ullr, I know how disappointing this is for you, but look outside; the weather simply would not allow for it. I doubt any of the vendors would even be receptive to business on a day such as today,” he spoke softly and warmly, a tone he preserved for his child alone. He stroked his hand over familiar dark locks before burying his fingers in the toddler’s thick mane. Ullr snuggled closer into his father’s embrace. He gave a reflexive sneeze when Loki’s rabbit collar tickled his nose. “Yule will have to be spent at home, this year. Let us hope the weather will be more temperate next winter.”

“Then where is Mother? Has she gone to the festival without us?” came the small voice, hardly audible when murmured into Loki’s chest. Loki had to keep himself from laughing at the child’s fear.

“As much as you mother revels in festivities, dear one, she would never leave you to do so when you were so much looking forward to celebrating with her.”

“Really?”

“Truly. No, dear one, she has been out hunting for our own Yule feast, and she will return victorious quite shortly, I am sure.” Ullr, comforted, slid from his father’s lap onto the sheepskins thrown before the hearth, curling his fingers into the warmed wool. The boy hummed distractedly at the thought of their own personal “feast.” “Though that isn’t to say that we cannot begin our own festivities in the meanwhile. How about some tales while we wait for our wayward huntress?” Like all children, Ullr loved the stories his father would weave, and, with all the quests he had ventured along with Thor, Loki had plenty of source material from which to draw.

Just as he had predicted, Ullr’s eyes grew large at the thought of a new story, and he clutched the wool excitedly. “Oh, please! You always have the best tales, Father!”

_Always have you been the Wordsmith betwixt the two of us, brother!_ Loki chuckled as Thor’s words echoed through his mind. “Shall I tell you a story of your uncle and myself?” The boy nodded, eager as ever to hear stories of his father’s and uncle’s exploits. “Now, let’s see… since it is Yule, I shall tell a story of another festival that ended quite memorably. Some time ago, my dear brother drank too heavily at a celebration such as tonight. He fell into a heavy sleep, and when he awoke the following day, he found his hammer to be missing. Being the kind brother that I am, I set out to find it. I donned your grandmother’s falcon cloak to fly to where I suspected it might have been stolen from your uncle and taken to. You see, there was a giant named Thrym…”

Loki glanced out of the large window as he told the saga, watching the snow steady fall in a white-out mass. Surely Sif would not be fool enough to allow herself to be stuck in the mess. Sure enough, after an hour more of basking in the fire’s heat and entertaining his son with tales and illusions of martens and foxes frolicking amongst the furniture, the front door banged open, and Ullr ran joyfully into his mother’s fur cloaks. Sif immediately threw off her snow-dotted hood and hoisted him onto her hip, smoothly depositing her quiver and bow in the front hall in the process.

Ullr hugged his mother around her neck and smiled broadly. “Father was right, you didn’t go to the festival without me!”

Sif chuckled and shared a look with Loki, who slowly rose to his feet and joined them in the hall. “Definitely not, I should say. I would not enjoy them half as much as I would with you, love.” She closed her eyes and leaned forward to receive a kiss from Loki, before turning and nodding toward the still-ajar door. “Hrökkvir is laden with plenty, and assistance with the stag would be appreciated.”

Loki looked outside, where the giant stallion stood proudly with his burden. If not for his sheer size, his dappled gray coat would melt him into the storm, feathered heels and all. A red deer hart draped evenly across his flanks, with several foxes and rabbit hanging beside. “Yes, dove, I should say so. Are there any animals left for the spring?”

Accustomed to his sarcasm, the lady rolled her eyes as she placed Ullr gently on the sheepskin in the room over. “Who knows how long this storm will barricade us in our home? Best be prepared,” she called back. Loki hummed non-committedly in return and set towards the game-laden mount. Their small kitchen staff scurried behind him, as if summoned by thought, and unloaded the horse.

“Save the pelts, send them to the tanner in the next village over,” he instructed them, “and send the antlers to my workshop.”

A stable hand came for Hrökkvir and returned the steed to him stall with directions to cover him and feed him warmed gruel to fight the cold. The prince returned to the warmth of his home, closing the door against the winter firmly behind him. He returned to the sitting room and was greeted by the sight of Sif stretched out before the fire, a happily chatting toddler sitting on her stomach.

“…and then Uncle Thor dressed up like a lady-bride to fool the giant, but he kept acting like a man, so Father had to keep making up stories so they could get the hammer back!”

“Is that so?” Sif asked amusedly, a warmth in her eyes as she flicked them towards Loki, who lounged against the chair back. She returned her gaze to her son, who practically vibrated with delight. “And what happened then?”

Ullr raised his hands as if he held Mjölnir himself, swinging his imaginary hammer through the air. “Uncle Thor hit the giant’s house, and it fell on top of all their heads! Then Father and Uncle Thor came home, the end,” he finished with a giggle, which turned into more as his mother sat upright and tickled his sides mercilessly. “Stop! Stop! That’s the end, I promise!”

Sif nodded sagely, deeming her son’s narration accurate. “That tale seems true enough,” she declared. She squeezed the boy tighter and ignored his token complaints. “Now what else has your father planted in your ear?”

“Yule tales, all, I assure you,” Loki interjected. He stepped around the chair and settled beside them, and he easily caught Ullr when the boy hurled himself into his father’s lap. The huntress raised an eyebrow and tugged off her leather gloves. She dropped them close to the fire to dry and began on the clasp of her cloak, letting the fur spill behind her as it slipped from her shoulders.  

“ _Stretched_ Yule tales. _Exaggerated_ Yule tales. What would your mother say?” Sif teased as she shucked off her boots and socks. She emitted a low moan as the hearth’s heat washed over her toes.

Loki smirked. “I should like to think that she would say that I weave my words as well as she weaves on her loom.” He sent his son off to the kitchens to nab an orange or two from the pantry, and the child scurried away to indulge in the customary Yule treat. “And who besides, darling Sif, will ever know? Now, is any more disrobing to occur, and shall we relocate elsewhere so that I may assist you?” She laughed and met him for a chaste kiss.

“Later, I swear you can help me unlace my leathers.”

“Such a temptress sits before me.”

“I’m sure.” She stole another kiss to soften her warming lips and trailed her mouth up to his cheekbones.  

“Such enticement aside, have you a need for the stag’s antlers?”

Sif hummed against his cheek. “You mentioned needing an old hart’s brow; I presumed you could make more use of them than I. They are quite grand, though. They would look regal above the mantle,” she mused.

“Protection charms,” Loki explained, “worn around the neck, for both you and Ullr. Norns know he needs any defense we can manage.” A metallic clang rang from the kitchen, as if on cue, followed by giggled apologies and the stern voice of the head of staff. “Several may also be inlayed in your saddle, among other useful places.”

A shrieking Ullr ran from the kitchens, oranges escaping from his small arms and rolling across the floor. Sif leaned her back into the prince’s chest. He dropped his head to her shoulder, and she grinned.

“Happy Yule, Loki.”

“Yes,” he agreed, smiling against her neck, “I should think that it is.”

* * *

Ullr stepped into the front hall of the Ydalir manor, peeling his furs from his shoulders and draping them to dry. “Mother?” he called tentatively, unsure of her presence in the house. She could just as easily be in the stables, or hunting on the grounds.

“In the sitting room, love,” called a familiar voice, and he moved toward the sound gratefully. He found his mother throwing a log into the fireplace, and, when she straightened, he gathered her in his arms and twirled her around. Now a head, or more, taller than her, he looked more like his father than ever before, with his dark locks, high cheekbones and sparkling eyes. The sight made Sif’s heart clench in her chest.

“How good it is to see you, Mother. With everything that’s happened-” Ullr broke himself off, instead staring at the floor of his childhood winter home. His father and mother moved him constantly in his youth to avoid scrutiny by the court, or, worse yet, Odin All-Father, though the latter knew of his existence at least by the time Ullr had reached his adolescence. Every juvenile Yule of his memory, however, were spent within the walls of this manor, feasting on venison as his father regaled him with tales long past. The memory was fringed with the scent of citrus and cloves, and he wondered absently just how long he could preserve it as such. “I shouldn’t have been gone for so long.”

“Ullr,” his mother smoothed a thumb over his furrowed brow, and he relaxed it in reflex, “the things that passed would have done so even if you had been present. Your choice to remain in Midgard has no bearing on that fact.”

“Even so, a millennia is hardly a justifiable amount of time to stay away from home,” he grumbled.

Sif waited for a moment, tasting her next words on her tongue. “Your father used to say,” she paused again to swallow the lump that choked her throat, “that you were like the snow outside: you would fall wherever the wind took you, only to be swept up and begin again. Our ambulatory lifestyle in your childhood hardly did anything to discourage that.”

Only the crackling of the firewood permeated the silence that followed. Ullr held his mother’s hand, and he could not lift his eyes from the protective Yr rune that hung about her neck, identical to the one that hung around his own. “I miss him, Mother,” his voice cracked slightly. “Even after what happened, what he did on Midgard, I want to see him more than anything.” He sniffed back his tears, though they wetted his lashes still. Sif pulled his head down to her chest and held him.

“As do I, Ullr, but he died well, in battle and defending your uncle. Have comfort at least that he now resides in the golden halls of Valhalla.” A tear traced down her cheek, so she dried it in her son’s hair. After a moment more, she gathered herself and pulled away, cupping his jaw lightly. “Come now, let us not make this too solemn a Yule. Join me on my hunt; you seem to be quite revered for your abilities on Midgard, so I trust they will pass my inspection today,” she mentioned with a raised brow.

Ullr cheeks colored a deep pink as he flushed. “ _Mother!_ ”

“And don’t think I did not notice you passing along your father’s tales to the Midgardians,” she ribbed, watching with joy as her son blushed more deeply. “ _Who besides will ever know,” indeed, Loki_ , she thought. “Come now, let’s head off before your red cheeks start to glow and alert the prey.” She headed toward the door, slipping her furs over her shoulders and her gloves over her fingers and ignoring the whined, “Mother!” behind her.

Outside, the stable hand had Hrökkvir saddled and ready alongside Ullr’s chestnut mare. Sif swung easily into the saddle and gratefully took the offered quiver and bow. Ullr mounted beside her, and, without a word, the pair departed for their hunt.

A falcon watched them go from his perch on the manor’s upmost ridge. He rustled his feather cloak – a gift from his mother, and a much appreciated one at that – and took flight.

**Author's Note:**

> And now a present for me, perhaps in the form of a comment?


End file.
